


a touch of dark

by FreshBrains



Category: Criminal Minds, Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Case Fic, Community: rounds_of_kink, Crime Scenes, Crossover, Dark, Dom/sub, Dubious Morality, Friends With Benefits, M/M, POV Will Graham, Past Relationship(s), Rope Bondage, Sub Will Graham, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 13:44:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8626756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBrains/pseuds/FreshBrains
Summary: Special Agent Aaron Hotchner is sliding a pair of latex gloves onto his hands, eyes on the girl. He glances at Will. “What are you making of this?”Will inhales sharply and slides his glasses further up his nose, a gesture he’d tried desperately to break himself of and never quite succeeded. “She was a very loyal submissive with a very shitty dominant.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the LJ Rounds_of_Kink (Amnesty Round 11) prompt: _Will finds Aaron intriguing and steadying. Aaron definitely doesn't mind + restraints._
> 
> Takes place during season one of _Hannibal_ and anytime after season five of _Criminal Minds_. Hannibal/Will is alluded to.
> 
>  **Content Warning** : This fic deals with a violent sex-related crime against a woman. It fits well into events that could happen in both canons, but it still may be disturbing.

“I feel… _superfluous_ here,” Will says, keeping to the outskirts of the crime scene. He’s afraid to go any closer; he’s not with Jack and Beverly and he knows the others can’t give him the space he desires when slipping into that mindset he needs to be in.

She’s trussed up, hog-tied, arms and legs bound in bowed, aching arcs so her forearms and toes touch her back. Her mouth is tugged open and filled with a heavy knot of rope. The rope is twisted and tied around her breasts and thighs, tight between her legs, a small knot resting against her clitoris. Her dark hair is in a ponytail, safely away from the knots and ties, like someone took great pains to make sure she didn’t get it caught in the craftsmanship.

She’s hanging from a tree. She spins in slow, lazy circles as evidence is collected and photographs are taken.

 “We’re out a few agents today,” Agent David Rossi says from his left, voice calm and soothing. “Jack Crawford says you’re good at what you do.”

“He’s not wrong,” Will says dryly. “I guess.” He walks slowly around the crime scene, examining her from all angles, trying to keep his eyes away from her abject nakedness and instead focusing on the artistry of the crime. The rope looks expensive—it’s a deep, royal purple, silky enough for it to shine in the midday sun, and Will can tell that it’s specialty rope. “That’s called a reverse shrimp tie,” he says plainly, recognizing the pattern. “It’s well-done.” He leans in to take a closer look. “Livor mortis on her stomach. No signs of struggle on her wrists or shoulders.”

“Her name is Kelly Ann Jasper. A few people down at the S&M club in Richmond reported her as missing a few days ago. She’s been dead for at least nine hours,” Rossi says, following Will’s gaze. “But she’s been up there for a lot longer.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Will says softly. Her body is rigid in its death stages, but there’s an eerie sense of calm on her face. Her eyes are shut to the world, face blank, and she almost looks _serene_ as she dangles above the damp forest floor. “She wanted to make someone proud,” Will says, looking down at the ground. “And I’ll bet you anything he’s going to come back to praise his own work.” He looks back up at Rossi. “What was the official cause of death?”

“Exposure,” a deep voice says from behind them. Special Agent Aaron Hotchner is sliding a pair of latex gloves onto his hands, eyes on the girl. “She wanted to be out here. She wanted to be _seen_.” He glances at Will. “What are you making of this?”

Will inhales sharply and slides his glasses further up his nose, a gesture he’d tried desperately to break himself of and never quite succeeded. “She was a very loyal submissive with a very shitty dominant.”

Hotch clears his throat. “They’re leaving her up there until nightfall.” His face twists into exquisite disgust as he crouches beneath the yellow tape and slowly approaches her like she’s a spooked animal. “Like a decoration.”

“They want him to come back,” Rossi muses. “You know he will, Hotch. It’s our best chance at getting him.”

“Maybe,” Hotch says softly, looking like he wants nothing more than to cut her down and let her be in peace on the cold, hard ground. “But he’s most likely watching us right now. He wouldn’t leave his prize possession in plain view without his consent for too long.”

“Then he won’t be able to help himself,” Will says. He knows the feeling.

Half an hour later, as they’re packing up and Will is commiserating about Freddie Lounds with the BAU’s pretty media liaison, Hotch waits by Will’s car, jacket slung over his arm. When Will finally makes it over across the dirt lot, he gives Hotch a small smile, eyes tired.

“You never called, Agent Hotchner,” he says, voice laced with self-deprecating humor as he fishes his keys out of his jacket pocket.

“You didn’t seem like you wanted to be called,” Hotch says, not unkindly. He moves away from the car door.

“To be fair,” Will says, “I didn’t call you either.” He leans against the open door, shivering a little in the autumn air. “I heard about Haley.” He licks his lips, looking out into the forest as the medical examiners file out with their gear. “How’s your son doing?”

Hotch follows his line of thinking easily. Will has too much empathy that it makes sympathy almost impossible to shoulder, and Hotch won’t let him get there. He also knows Will has a soft spot for children. “He’s doing well. Great, actually.” Rossi is waiting for him in the SUV. “Will you be in town tonight?”

“I live nearby,” Will says. “I’ll send you my address. I hope you don’t mind dogs.” He slides into the car without looking back at Hotch.

*

Will no longer bothers trying to get close to people who haven’t been touched by darkness. It might be pretentious, in a way—but he prefers to think of it as protective. He might be filled with evil things, things that eat away at a person until they’re nothing but dark holes, but he has little desire to infect anyone else.

Aaron Hotchner is made of darkness, filled with the stuff Will sees in shadowed corners and splayed out on exam tables, and he reminds Will so deeply of Dr. Lecter that it gives him a chill in his gut and bolt of uncomfortable heat in his groin. Hotch’s face is unmarked stone, grim and unrevealing, his eyes cool. He carries himself like a man who has an important burden, but not like he’s an important man.

Will is instantly pulled into his black-hole orbit, the strength of his pain, and he hates himself for it. Will’s tried to avoid working near the BAU ever since he met Dr. Spencer Reid and felt like he was being peeled away from his own skin—the Behavioral Analysis Unit is a unit Will wants and needs to be a thousand miles away from. He knows that they’re good people in the way that people know dentists and surgeons are good people—you have to play through their pain to get to the results, and often, they’re going to find things you’d rather not bring attention to.

In short, they’re good at their jobs, and so is Will, and _never the ‘twain shall meet_ , he decided—until now.

“I was surprised you invited me here,” Hotch says, already shrugged out his jacket, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow. The veins in his arms twitch every time Buster barks, and Will remembers for the thousandth time that everyone’s past creeps up on them in different ways. But Hotch just crouches down to scratch the pups around their ruffs.

“I’m many things, but not much of a hermit,” Will says, arms braced behind him on the kitchen counter. He likes seeing Hotch in his house, the clash of rustic against city, of harsh against soft. “Did you get here alright?”

Hotch hums in assent. “I like the back-roads,” he says, standing straight, brushing off his pants. “This town is beautiful after dark.”

 _Maybe he saw the stag, too_ , Will thinks swallowing hard. _Maybe I’m not the only one._

Hotch is walking towards him, slow, but not in the way Hannibal has approached him before. Hotch doesn’t move like a cat waiting to strike or a snake in the grass; he moves like a _man_ , all man, with a mission ahead of him and a deadline approaching. “Do you want to talk about the case?”

Will doesn’t _want_ to, but they need to. That has always been the crux of their relationship—a façade of professionalism before the first touch. And they work pretty damn well together. Will folds his arms across his chest, suddenly chilly. “What’s there to talk about? The bureau has made their decision. We’re all just waiting to see if he comes back for his toy.”

Hotch’s brow furrows. Instead of pressing Will against the counter like they both want, he stands next to Will, leaning against the cluttered surface to gaze out the window into the starry backyard. “I’m not buying that. Him seeing her as a toy.” Will looks at him, waiting for an explanation. “It’s too clean. Too elegant. Toys get scratched and broken, they get tossed in the corner for later. He may have left her to die, but in a way, she…”

“Do _not_ say she was a willing victim,” Will bites, mostly because the thought crossed his own mind already.

“No victim is ever willing,” Hotch says quietly. “I’m not sure she _knew_ she was a victim. Your friend, Agent Katz, said there was no sign that she tried to bite through the gag to scream for help, no sign of bruising or friction burns. She probably didn’t know she was going to die until it was way too late.”

Will nods. Their minds work in the same way—hope for the best, expect the very worst. Bring the very worst right to the table on a silver platter. “I bet you see a lot of this stuff.”

There’s a beat of silence, the tap dripping, the house settling against the wind, and then Hotch is turning to face Will, bracketing Will’s body against the counter with his arms on either side of him. He’s sturdy, comforting in the way a silent alarm or a chained Rottweiler is comforting, and he looks down at Will with black eyes. “Too much of it,” he says, bringing one hand to the back of Will’s neck, urging Will to look up at him. _Look at me when I’m speaking to you_ , Will can hear in Hotch’s voice, but knows Hotch would never say it out loud. His hand says it, hot and firm on Will’s neck, reigning in his strength.

Will looks up. This time, his gaze is not challenging. It’s not challenging Jack or Hannibal or any number of students or agents or journalists wondering if he’s insane. It’s _submissive_ , totally and completely, blank and fierce with desire. “I’m willing,” he says, nuzzling into Hotch’s hand. “I’m here. For you.” The words have several meanings, and Will wants Hotch to understand them all.

“I know,” Hotch says, and presses his other hand to the small of Will’s back, tugging their bodies flush together. His fingers crumple in Will’s flannel shirt. “Thank you.”

That makes Will go dizzyingly, blindingly hard in a matter of seconds, muscles going lax, groaning into Hotch’s neck. They’re not doing this right, really—they never have. Their discussions on boundaries and safe-words are limited, they go by instinct rather than structure. But that simple admission of gratitude, Hotch _thanking_ Will for his submission, is something Will can never forget. “I’ll take you to bed, now,” he says hoarsely, and doesn’t protest when Hotch growls and hitches Will up in his arms, already knowing the way to the bedroom.

*

“I always thought you were too calm,” Hotch says, hand running up from Will’s waist to settle at his bare throat in a loose threat. They’re both naked, still on top of the quilts, the early snow outside casting a bluish glow onto their skin. “But I understand now.”

 _Don’t profile me_ , Will thinks. He will allow it, though, because he knows Hotch knows better than to delve too deep. “Tell me,” he says, rolling into his side to face Hotch.

“You’re never _not_ thinking,” Hotch says, skimming his hand along Will’s bare side and hip, making him shiver. He reaches onto the night table and slicks up his fingers. “I used to look at you and see blank. Nothing. Like you were sliding elsewhere.” He presses his thumb against Will’s hole, making Will arch back into the touch. His other hand is still poised around Will’s throat. “But really, you’re just so _here_. More than anyone else.”

“I never wanted to be like this,” Will says, but it comes out weak and thin, all of his energy focused on Hotch getting inside of him. He squirms back, lips chasing at Hotch’s neck, but Hotch only gives him a sharp slap on his ass and a warning look, mouth set in a grim, disappointed line.

“Be _here_ ,” Hotch says firmly. “ _Only_ here, for me. Now.” In one smooth movement, he pushes Will over and onto his stomach, urging his hips up so his ass is presented. “Put your hands on the headboard, please.”

“I won’t be able to hold on,” Will says, and it’s just honesty. His instinct is to flee, to fight back, and he’ll try to get away like an animal in a trap the second Hotch’s cock nudges up against his hole.

“Then I’ll tie them,” Hotch says, simple as that. Before Will can say anything, he’s already reaching over to the bedside table again for the worn leather length of Will’s belt. On another night, that belt would be put to different use, _better_ use, but tonight isn’t about pain. It’s about taking what is given and being _grateful._

“I would prefer to rope handcuff knot,” Hotch says absently, looping the belt through the minimalistic cut-out in the headboard, “but this will do. Too tight?”

Will’s wrist bones throb where they’re pressing together, his fingers splayed out like skittering claws, but he shakes his head. This leaves him just half-panicked enough for a rush of blood to head towards his cock. “I want,” he says, soft and desperate, not knowing how to finish the plea.

But Hotch knows. He runs his hands down and underneath Will, fingers scraping painfully over Will’s nipples, cock pressed between Will’s legs. “While I fuck you, think of only me,” Hotch says. “Only this.” It isn’t ego—it’s survival. His hand comes up to cup Will’s Adam’s apple again and the head of his cock nudges against Will’s slick hole.

Will exhales, shudder, and welcomes Aaron Hotchner inside.

*

Will lies on his stomach, one arm draped over the side of the bed, speckled with goose-bumps from the early chill. He dangles his wrist in the light, examining the pretty spray of darkening bruises at all angles. Her flexes his fingers, watches the skin jump and change color.

From behind him, Hotch runs a hand down Will’s back and ass, gentle and proprietary. “It’s almost six,” he says, an edge of disappointment in his voice. Their phones, both charging on Will’s desk, did not ring all night.

Kelly Anne Jasper’s killer did not return for her.

“Should we…do we…” Will knows it isn’t their job—this is Price and Zeller’s turn. They’ll carefully extract Jasper from her bonds, make sure her body doesn’t fall to the forest floor like a bag of trash, examine every mark left on her body. They’ll take care of her, treat her with dignity. “He _left_ her. We were so wrong.”

He thinks of her in that tree all night long, the animals skittering around her, the birds swooping past, frost thickening at the small of her back. He thinks of her hair fluttering in the breeze. He thinks of how she must’ve died thinking she was loved, thinking someone was coming for her. Or maybe she knew all along she was doomed.

 _Maybe that’s what love feels like_ , Will wonders, and pushes the thought away. He curls up in Hotch’s arms, allows the other man to stroke his hair, kiss his forehead. _Maybe love is supposed to end like that._

Either way, this isn’t a case he’s equipped to solve.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Red Hot Chili Peppers' "Dark Necessities."


End file.
